


The Interventions

by blogyourfeelings



Series: The End and The Beginning [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blogyourfeelings/pseuds/blogyourfeelings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of conversations between characters after the return of Jim Moriarty. Mycroft and Mary, with the help of others, try to reconcile Sherlock and Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Interventions

Mycroft Holmes has always been in awe of his little brother. Sometimes at his ridiculous antics in their younger days, his blatant disregard for his superior mind, the juxtaposition of _who he wanted to be_ and _who he really was._

It was why he worried in his elder years, about that bright young boy who’d run around the fields with a large dog at his back, letting the wind carry his wild laughter. That boy- the one Mycroft so secretly adored- was long gone by university, battered by barrage of hateful comments from school children, teachers and others.

He had fretted that the closeness Sherlock felt with his adopted family- John and Mary, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly- were an attempt to eridicate the painful isolation of childhood. Another crutch for his loneliness, another drug of sorts.

The more Sherlock grew accustomed to Mrs Hudson’s loving fussing, to Greg’s calls to help him with cases, to John’s company at Baker Street- the more Mycroft was reminded of the faded image of a laughing child tearing through green fields with a grin.

Mycroft resented it in a way- he’d fought for years to bring back his brother from the despair of drug addiction- loving him in the best way Myrcoft knew he could, with a expensive rehab facility and a call about a job helping the Yard. He'd never had been comfortable with his protective instinct, never been good at expessing his concerns. Often he would offer Sherlock guidance, that he thought then would prepare him for the cruel ignorance of the general population, but he now feared had been damaging and disheartening.

_'People will never truly love us Sherlock because they'll never understand us. They fear us. Never, ever forget that.'_

A little Sherlock, curly haired and damped eyed, had given a solemn nod. Because Mycroft was always right. He was the smart one, the one who couldn’t care less what his uneducated classmates thought of him, who flinched away from their parent's affection, to only take refuge in history books and political doctrines.

Mycroft, under the guise of the controlling, cold, older sibling has been trying to make amends for his misgivings as a brother. That’s what had brought him to an unfamilar home, to a too bright kitchen, and an uncharasterically grumpy pathologist.

"Good Afternoon, Molly," Mycroft greets pleasently.

Too pleasently for Molly liking. She sighs, still worn at the edges from her last conversation with a Holmes in this kitchen. “What’d you want Mycroft?”

"Just a chat."

"About?" Molly probes.

"My brother, of course," Mycroft exhales heavily. He sits at the Watson's small breakfast table. "Isn’t it always?"

Molly lips twitch into a half smirk and she takes her place across from him.

"I’ve had several calls from Mrs Hudson. Apparently, Sherlock’s been composing a lot during the night," Mycroft informs her. "She claims the neighbours can’t sleep for sad violin music."

"And you care a lot about Sherlock’s neighbours lack of sleep?" She asks, a sardonic smile plastered on her face. It’s a defence, because she knows Mycroft is aware of Sherlock’s visit to the Watson’s early in the week.

"Naturally," Mycroft returns, with a smirk of his own. It drops immediately, his mouth morphing his face into a more serious expression. The one she imagines he gives in his day job. "We all know Sherlock plays his violin when he’s thinking," Mycroft utters, eyes entrapening Molly in a sincere, solemn gaze. Molly spots a sad melancholy there too. Mycroft continues, quiet and calm. "Now what would he be thinking about to play such sorrowful music?"

Molly feels a rush of guilt under Mycroft’s unwavering stare. From all his signals, it’s clear to Molly that Mycroft thinks whatever she has said to Sherlock on his visit is the root of his current unhappiness. She hadn’t imagined she’d ever have the power to hurt Sherlock, but she supposes that often the most standoffish, arrogant of people are the easiest to wound. “I-I’m not sure,” She stutters.

"Love," Mycroft states. The word tastes foreign on his tongue.

It sounds unfamilar to Molly as well. “Love?” She asks shakily, because she understands the impossible implication of what he’s suggesting.

"My brother has always been troubled by it," Mycroft admits. He looks contrite in his next confession. "I suppose that’s partly my fault."

"What’d you need me to do?" Molly inquires. Finally she feels like she has a purpose for the first time since the mess of the aftermath of Moriarty’s return. All she wants to do is _help someone, do something_ , instead of wait and wait in the warm, safe confines of the Watson’s home.

"I’m not entirely sure," He replies with a rueful smile. "You’re very good at understanding what he needs. Just…understand him."

 _Understand him_. The words echo in her mind like a broken reel. She can’t quite comprehend them, but she has a gut feeling that soon she truly might. That she can't give up on him yet.

"I’ll do my best," She promises, a tentative smile creeping onto her face.

Mycroft mirrors her pleased expression. He stands up from his chair, clearly having achieved what he came here to.”In return, I will do my upmost to get you back to work. I know how desperate you are to get back to your normal life.”

Her mouth widens at his comment, feeling lighter than she has in weeks. A promise from a Holmes is nothing to be trifled with.

Her job was important to her, but there was something tangibly more precious to her. So she blurts out to Mycroft’s receding figure. “You’ll keep him safe, won’t you? From Moriarty?”

"Of course," He pledges, whirling back with raised eyebrows, as if he surprised she even had to ask. He stops in his tracks, his mouth tilting upwards in amusement. "It’s a tough job though. Perhaps it's a two man operation?"

Molly cannot contain a affectionate grin. For all his faults, Molly knows Sherlock’s brother is decent man and a caring brother. “I’m happy to help,” She says, brown eyes sparkling in the afternoon light of the kitchen.

Mycroft parts with a goodbye and genuine smile. An old flickering image reappears, more vibrant than ever, but transformed. Sherlock’s not a boy, nor the troubled young man the boy would become, but a man with the roughish, jovial grin of a five year old. He’s not alone either, strolling hand in hand with a petite, brown haired woman Mycroft knows well. She lights up the image with her presence, her smile, her warmth.

Mycroft had to laugh at Molly’s earlier question. _**You’ll keep him safe, won’t you?**_ He has no choice, he’s never had choice in caring about his brother. Its innate instinct in him, buried deep, and it's taken him to drug dens in Cambridge, to Serbia, to Appledore, to the warm, homely Watson residence. He knows there's a hard battle still raging on- Moriarty looms like a black cloud, and they can only wait to see what reign of terror he will bring down upon them. But as he makes his way onto the street to a waiting car, Mycroft can only see blue sky and an ever-burning yellow sun.


End file.
